


the sneer stretches into a cartoon leer

by generalguideline



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age Inquisition - Fandom
Genre: Hair Washing, Homesickness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, Snark, size queen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 12:36:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3134747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/generalguideline/pseuds/generalguideline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exiles in arms.  Eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sneer stretches into a cartoon leer

**Author's Note:**

> for a friend, who plants some of the most amazing images without even realising. in hope this brings some delight to your day.

The tavern was crowded and noisy and Dorian on his way to being dourly alone within it, when the Champion of Kirkwall joined him. 

A goblet of wine placed between them, their eyes never meeting, as the Champion stared into his tankard with exclusive focus. He wore plain clothes, and Dorian observed that much of the Champion's overwhelming physical presence faded into the background without the armour. 

He was certainly smaller than he'd previously seemed. 

Dorian was also certain he did not like the Champion, who had an air of dangerous instability reminiscent of a Fade rift; _tread wary, here be demons_. Still, no purpose in damaging the fragile professional distance they'd forged during their sojourn into the Fade – maintained mostly by not speaking to each other at all – so Dorian took the wine and did not take offence at the deliberate distinction between their drinks. 

He didn't taste it, though. Southern wine was no better than vinegar.

Hawke's contemptuous expression gradually lost itself in sorrowful contemplation of his far more manlier tankard of ale. 

No word spoken, and the scenario was already tending along that familiar path. In general respect for both the Champion and the unspoken rules of the confidant, Dorian resigned himself to playing the shallow and sympathetic audience. The crumpled Champion showed no sign of airing his sorrow soon, and Dorian half tuned into the surrounding conversations in search of relief. 

_'—beach in Antiva where no one wears a shred. Honest, I ain't kidding you. Me mam took me there when I was a boy. Course the first thing I see is tits everywhere, all these Antivan ladies, I mean I'm thinking of nothing but a drink at that age, right? right? But near every pair's bigger than me mams'. So I ask her, why're they bigger? She says—'_

'Your Inquisitor.' Hawke drank with gusto, wiped froth from his mouth with the inside of his wrist, and returned the half drunk tankard to the table with some force. The end of a sentence.

Such drama, thought Dorian, and allowed himself to be mildly annoyed.

_'—worry, the bigger the bosoms are, the dumber the girl—'_

'Large lass. Very big sword. Don't tell me she's broken your heart. Killed your mother. Converted your city to the Qun.'

A frown folded the beard, and the brow. What part of it was visible behind the excesses of hair. Such an impressive frown. 'Are you mocking me?'

'Certainly not.'

'Have you even read Varric's book?'

'Maker forbid. Literary abomination. As if heroism can only be forged in a fire of total despair, ha.'

_'—the men have junk larger than me dad's, and – me being a near infant of nine, larger than mine, right? – I ask her the same thing. Why's all the men have bigger junk than dad. She says, don't you worry Samuel, the bigger the junk, the dumber the man. Happy I am, yeah, right, laugh you sods, with my tiny junk, so off I go to play—'_

'A mage killed my mother and used Tevinter necromancy to attempt to resurrect an ensemble of body parts most resembling his lost love.'

'That is truly tragic. Sincerest sympathies.'

'Is that all you have to say?'

'Well, I didn't kill her.'

' _–so I go running back to me mam, shouting, mam, mam, come quick, you gotta help him, dad's talking to the dumbest girl on the beach, and the more they talk the dumber he gets!'_

'Tevinter,' Hawke said, 'tell me why I shouldn't kill you for that smirk.'

'Sorry, I was-- overheard something. Nothing to do with--' oh, _shit_. 'Your actual mother.'

Try to hasten the skittering thoughts. Dorian met Hawke's quizzical stare. The death threat was clearly bluff, Dorian convinced himself, even if the flatness in Hawke's face never eased. As it was, he was somewhat used to death threats.

'Alright, you've earned my attention. I thought you were intending some maudlin expository tale of broken hearted woe, perhaps involving our Inquisitor, or potentially Cassandra, in which you would appeal to my particular mystical ability to talk attractive women into other men's beds. Consequently, I wasn't in the frame of mind for an actual conversation. I am now.' In the face of Hawke's continued silence, 'You are familiar with conversations, aren't you? This is the part where you speak. Then I speak. Then you speak again. Easy once you have the rhythm.'

'What particular mystical ability?'

Dorian looked skyward, but Sera wasn't there to save him. 'Blood magic.'

'You aren't serious. The Inquisitor would take your head. _I_ would have your head.'

'Lower your voice, you thick, tragic yet strangely innocent mass murderer.'

'Blood magic is no joking matter. Forget what it does, don't you even know what it means?'

'As you say, Champion.' At the end of his tolerance for his own joke, Dorian clipped his words, the staccato used in lieu of the more leisurely Tevinter affectation. 'What did you want with me?'

Hawke rubbed the bridge of his nose, then stood. 'Nothing beyond what your Inquisitor asks of me to repay my debts. Until tomorrow, Pavus. Bring your best gear and be ready to play magister. By the looks of it, at least that won't be difficult for you.'

That should not have stung. 'What's tomorrow?'

Hawke did not look back, shaggy and nondescript, slipping sideways through the crowd.

Disgruntled, Dorian took a mouthful of the wine with intention to swallow as quickly as possible, to spare himself the taste. Halfway down when the reality hit his tongue, and his throat seized, breath rushing from his lungs. 

A travesty to leave the glass undrunk. An even greater travesty to try to drink as he shoved his way through to the bar with much less ease than Hawke had in departure, spilling the precious stuff, but it _burned_ him so. The urgency was misplaced, he knew. He knew. But he also could not ignore it. 

Burned at his eyes, too, prickling at the corners, or that could have been the smoke. He called out for the bartender, who somewhat begrudgingly attended him immediately. Felt a pinch of _something_ at that, then a rising anger at feeling _shame_ , which is what the something was. All mixed in with the taste on his tongue and the memories it threw at him. But how else was he and everything he stood for supposed to carve a place here, where everyone wanted to ignore him and what he was, except to make a familiar nuisance of himself? He latched on to the anger instead.

'Since when do you stock from Aggregio, you lying little shit? You've been fobbing me off for weeks with your sodding "no Tevinter varieties, serah"--'

'Told you before, neighbour. You want ale, I'll get you an ale'. The dwarf was already walking away. 'With a secret ingredient. Ale. Or you could have some ale with your ale. Ale, ale, who wants more ale? All these good, patiently waiting people, that's who, and certainty not you.'

Which left Dorian with an empty goblet and a growing sensation of embarrassment.


End file.
